Golden Truffle Ground Chuck Cheeseburger and Fries with Homemade Ketchup is served at Costa Mesa's Golden Truffle. The menu changes daily. Chef owner Alan Greeley started as a caterer. He still caters and tailors the menu to fit the event and budget. Private dinners can be held in the restaurant's wine cellar room. The restaurant has an eye-catching yellow awning seen along Newport Beach Boulevard near West 18th Street. CINDY YAMANAKA, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

Veal schnitzel with lemon and rosemary is offered at Golden Truffle in Costa Mesa. CINDY YAMANAKA, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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Lobster and avocado bruschetta is served at Golden Truffle in Costa Mesa. CINDY YAMANAKA, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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Tom's Hot Toddy of fresh lime juice, honey, cinnamon whiskey and hot water is garnished with a cinnamon stick at Golden Truffle in Costa Mesa. CINDY YAMANAKA, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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Chef owner Alan Greeley, center, goes over the menu with lunch guests at his local landmark restaurant, Golden Truffle. "The chef is an incredibly creative cook. His zest for life makes you feel good," says Geoffrey Stack of Corona del Mar, background right. Stack has been treating his assistant. Marylyn Milburn, across from Stack, for Christmas lunch here for the past 20 years. CINDY YAMANAKA, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

A Short's Negroni of Hendrick's Gin, Lillet Blanc, Campari and orange garnish is poured at Golden Truffle. The Costa Mesa restaurant also has an extensive wine selection with current vintages from California, France, Italy, Australia, South Africa, Spain and Chile. The wine list changes regularly. CINDY YAMANAKA, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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Peter Martin, sommelier and server, center, pours sparkling water. The bar, right, and a semi-open kitchen, which lies just beyond the bar, is seen from the entrance at Golden Truffle, Costa Mesa. CINDY YAMANAKA, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

Tom's Hot Toddy will warm on a cold winter's day. It features fresh lime juice, honey, cinnamon whiskey, hot water and is garnished with a cinnamon stick at Golden Truffle in Costa Mesa. CINDY YAMANAKA, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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Golden Truffle is located at 1767 Newport Blvd., Costa Mesa, 949-645-9858. It's open for lunch Tuesday through Friday from 11:30 a.m. to 2 p.m., and dinners Thursday through Saturday 5:30 10 p.m.. It is closed Sunday and Monday. CINDY YAMANAKA, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

Reviews are based on multiple visits. Ratings reflect the reviewer's overall reaction to food, ambience and service with price taken into consideration.

It's approaching 3 p.m., and although the lights in the kitchen were turned off nearly an hour ago, several tables in the front dining room of The Golden Truffle are still buzzing with conversation and laughter. Tabletops are cluttered with not-yet-emptied wine bottles. Chef/owner Alan Greeley, wearing a white chef's coat that displays evidence of a hard day's work, has pulled up a chair and is chatting with a group of men dressed in suits with loosened ties. They appear to be telling jokes. In the opposite corner, two women are discussing an upcoming charity event, sipping Champagne.

I'm enjoying the last remnants of a burger. It was a monster: a fistful of ground chuck that I'm guessing weighed half a pound, simultaneously bloody and greasy, sandwiched between a pillowy bun with a wedge of bibb lettuce and a massive slice of heirloom tomato. Juices squirted in every direction as I tried in vain to shrink it down to a size that would actually fit between my jaws. I flagged down a waiter, and before I could tell him what I needed, he took one look at my face and asked, "Another napkin?"

Before I know it, my plate is empty, and I feel like the snake who ate the rabbit. I'm paralyzed. I, too, need to sit for a while longer, nursing what's left in my wine glass.

For as far back as I can remember, The Golden Truffle has been Orange County's quintessential three-martini lunch spot. Except, well, there weren't any martinis. For the past 30 years, this venerable institution has served only beer and wine. Until last month, that is, when the restaurant finally obtained a full liquor license. That veritable three-martini lunch is now official.

Since moving to Orange County two months ago, I've asked a dozen trusted cohorts to name their favorite restaurants. One place that keeps popping up is The Golden Truffle. "Alan catered my wedding," says one fan. "Their wine prices are fantastic," says another. "The service there is the best," says a third, adding, "Just make sure the chef is on duty when you go," which strikes me as an odd thing to say.

Thus reeling from an amazing burger and spurred on by the advice of trusted friends, I find myself returning to The Golden Truffle several more times, for lunch and for dinner.

The Golden Truffle is not an attractive restaurant. Mauve fell out of vogue in the early 1980s. Still, the dining room is comfortable. The walls are cluttered with celebrity memorabilia. A large map of Spain hangs noticeably askew. Decades-old cookbooks gather dust next to a dozen empty wine trophies. Trendier restaurants come and go, but this place endures. There has to be a good reason for that, and I suspect the No. 1 reason might be the heartfelt hospitality shown every day here by the staff, including the chef himself on two of my visits.

The menu is a curious script. It reads like a compilation of unrelated short stories by the same author rather than a single cohesive novel. There is no discernible plot, no highly orchestrated arc. There are no particular rhymes or reasons why tacos and lasagna share the same page as marinated anchovies or sauteed liver and onions. They just do.

One moment, I'm chewing on Vietnamese-inspired spring rolls. The next, I'm scooping still-hot-from-the-fryer tortilla chips into expert guacamole. I marvel at a veal schnitzel so large it hangs off the edge of its plate. A piece of toast on one visit is slathered with blue cheese and placed under the broiler until it turns bubbly; then it's showered with shaved black truffles. I can't actually taste the truffles because the cheese is already so intense, but it's a fun idea. Most everything is good but rarely what I'd call revelatory.

It's not until my third visit that I actually experience a revelation. My lunch guests and I have just taken the first sips of our martinis when a waiter delivers a surprise, compliments of the chef. I suspect they've figured out who I am by now. We're each presented with an enormous red clam, four inches in diameter, a quarter-inch thick, along with a generous mound of minced abalone. It's the only thing so far that trumps the burger.

For the next few days, I can't get that clam out of my mind. It was brilliant. And then I'm reminded of the restaurant's website, which urges diners to just "let the chef cook." So I make the decision to return for a fourth visit.

I show up on a Saturday night without a reservation. The valet station is jammed with idling cars, and a crowd is already gathered on the sidewalk. But when I get to the front door, I realize that all those customers are standing in line for Roman Cucina, the Italian restaurant next door. The Golden Truffle is strangely empty.

I take a seat at the bar, and the bartender/waiter greets me with a menu. "Actually," I say, pushing the menu aside, "I'd like to let the chef cook tonight. Just surprise me."

He responds with a look of panic. "Um," he says, sounding the invisible alarm. "Alan's the only mad genius in the kitchen, and unfortunately not here tonight. He's out catering. When he's not here, we can't do a chef's tasting. I'm sorry." He gently hands me the menu again.

"Just make sure the chef is there" echoes inside my head. And now it makes more sense. Instead of finally seeing what Greeley can really do, I settle for utility. I start with perfectly respectable carne asada tacos then progress to a good but ordinary lasagna made with braised oxtail and beef tongue. For dessert, I poke my spoon into a cold, too-thickly textured pecan crème brûlée. Two small bites of dessert is all I can muster. I've never been particularly clairvoyant, but I look around and get a very strong sense that the staff feels my pain tonight.

I'm completely baffled as to why, after 30 years, such a renowned chef hasn't yet groomed an apprentice who can step into his shoes when he's not in the kitchen – which is obviously often – and create a similar kind of magic as that for which Greeley himself is so obviously respected?

Then I look around the dining room on this quiet evening, and I realize I'm just the last person to get the memo: "Make sure the chef is in the kitchen when you go."

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